The Josephine B. Trilogy (80 page)

Chère amie,

Victories in Egypt! One at El-Ramanyeh, another at Chebreis and then, the coup de grâce, a decisive victory over the Mamelouks near Cairo. “The Battle of the Pyramids” we have named it.

I know as heartening as this news is that you will be disappointed over the lack of letters from that land. Unfortunately, the English are high-jacking whatever ships Bonaparte sends in our direction. It has a certain charm, this relationship. We capture their ships, read their mail; they capture our ships, read ours. If only their letters were more interesting.

Regarding more mundane matters, you will be amused to know that General Brune came all the way back to Paris from Milan just to complain about the chicanery of certain of our government officials there, including the “shameless plundering” of your charming sister-in-law Pauline Bonaparte
and her accomplice in greed, her husband General Victor Leclerc.

However, before General Brune returned to Milan (stomped back, I should say), I managed to have “a word” with him about the Bodin Company contract. The merest hint of a payback put him in an agreeable disposition. Ah, but these virtuous Republicans are the easiest to bribe.

Père Barras

Note
—
Forgive me, my dear, but I simply cannot and will not promote Citoyen Lahorie. As a director of this Republic, I must, from time to time, act responsibly. I understand that he was a friend of your first husband and that therefore you wish to help the man, but frankly, he’s an idiot.
^*

August 9.

I walked for ten minutes. I am determined to join Bonaparte in Egypt.

In which victories are followed by defeat

September 16, 1798
—
Paris.

I arrived home to devastating news. Buried in a massive stack of calling cards, parcels, letters of congratulation and the usual demands from bill collectors, there was a note from Barras:
Come see me as soon as you arrive. Urgent.

I put my hat back on. “What is it, Maman?” Hortense has become sensitive to my moods.

“Director Barras wishes to see me.” No doubt it had to do with news from the East regarding Bonaparte. Or perhaps Eugène! I didn’t like the word
urgent.

It took some time to get to the palace—the streets were congested, and everywhere there were signs of festivity, preparations for the Republican Year VII celebrations. On Rue Honoré, an enormous banner depicting Bonaparte with palm trees and pyramids in the background had been hung from the bell tower of a church.

“Madame Bonaparte!” Barras’s elderly valet bounded to his feet. “Director Barras has been most anxious for your arrival.” Bruno pulled the big oak doors open.

Barras was playing the violin when I entered. He stopped abruptly when he saw me, his gold-rimmed lorgnon falling, swinging on a pink cord, his eyes tender and sad. “I’m so relieved to see you. You’ve survived the journey? You look thin.” His voice sweet, bell-like.

I embraced him, inhaling his familiar scent, spirit of ambergris. How was I? Fine, fine, I lied. In fact, the journey had been painful, but I didn’t
want to list my aches and pains. “I received your note.” Gingerly, I took a seat, for my hip was inflamed after two days in a jolting carriage. “I confess I’m anxious.”

“Of course! Of course!” Barras took the chair near mine, shifted uncomfortably. “We’ve had…news,” he said, clearing his throat, his Adam’s apple bobbing.

“Paul, please tell me—are they all right?” Nothing could be worse than what I imagined.

“Bonaparte, you mean?” Crossing his legs at the ankle.

“Yes—and the boys.” Eugène, Louis.

“Of course, yes. They’re fine, I assure you, but there has been…How should I put it? There’s been a bit of a setback. But I assure you, yes, Bonaparte and the boys are safe,” he repeated, raising his left hand as if making a vow, “as are most of the men.”

Most?
I tilted my head to one side, my dangling earrings tinkling.

“But the fleet is…sunk,” he said in a whisper.

Sunk?
I listened in a daze as Barras explained. After Admiral Brueys anchored the fleet at Aboukir, the English swooped down and destroyed all but four of our ships. The commander of the
Timoléon
set his ship on fire rather than surrender. He died, standing on the deck. Admiral Brueys was cut in two standing at the helm of
L’Orient.
The explosion of the gunpowder in the hold could be heard in Alexandria, twenty-five miles away. The battle went on for three days, the bloodiest ever fought at sea. And yet the English did not lose a single ship.

I put my fist to my lips, overwhelmed by the enormity of the loss. The greatest fleet in history since the Crusades—
gone?
Over three thousand men killed or wounded. All the supplies—including the gold needed to buy provisions—lost.

Barras refilled his glass, spilling spirits onto the carpet. “And, of course, the unfortunate thing is that now the troops are…” He cleared his throat again. “Stranded.”

My heart began to pound. “But surely we’ll rescue them,” I said, twisting my handkerchief.

“I can’t see how! The English are now in control of the sea. It’s doubtful that we’ll even be able to get a mail boat through.”

A feeling of panic came over me. I had to get home, before I was overcome.

“You understand, we’re keeping this confidential,” he went on.

“But Paul, an entire fleet, how can you—?”

“The exhibition opens tomorrow! We’ve planned the most spectacular New Year fête imaginable, to celebrate Bonaparte’s victories. And now
this.
The people laugh at us as it is. I’m already accused of every vice, of committing every crime, every petty thievery. To hear people talk, I’m a very busy man. Have you heard the latest epigram? ‘If only the Republic could be disem
barras
sed.’ Charming, don’t you think? And what about that poster of a lance, a lettuce leaf and a rat? It’s everywhere; you’ll see it. I finally figured it out:
the seventh year will kill them.
^*
And, you know, I’m starting to think maybe they’re—”

“Paul, please, tell me. What does this mean?”

Barras’s glass missed the fireplace and shattered against the wall. Toto jumped up, cowering. “What it means is that the
goddamned
English have downed the entire French fleet.” He sank back into his chair, his hands over his eyes. “Grand Dieu, I’m going mad.”

September 17.

Hortense was hopping up and down with excitement. “There are ribbons and bouquets on all the posts.”

“And colourful silk banners fluttering in the breeze,” Émilie (Madame
Lavalette
now) said.

“That’s wonderful,” I said, trying to put some enthusiasm in my voice.

Hortense became concerned. “We
are
going to the exhibition, Maman—aren’t we?”

It was easier than I thought it would be, accepting congratulations on behalf of my husband’s victories, smiling, bowing, nodding—not letting on. I watched as if from a distance the people dancing, singing, staggering in the glow of their country’s glory, in the illusion of victory. The
realization of defeat would come soon enough. Perhaps it is always thus. Perhaps all victories are false, defeat the inevitable reality.

Or perhaps, more truly, I too did not want to think about what I knew to be true, that the greatest of victories had been followed by the greatest of defeats.

I felt a gentle touch on my shoulder. Barras, looking ill—from last night’s tippling, no doubt. “How are you managing?” he asked, his soft voice very nearly drowned out by all the commotion. He was wearing the ceremonial robe of a director, an enormous crimson cashmere cape and a velvet toque with a tricolour plume.

“Not too bad,” I said, keeping an eye on Hortense, Caroline, Émilie and Jérôme, who were over by a lemonade vendor. An enclave of Bonapartes sat in a roped-off cluster directly in front of the stage. “It’s not as hard as I thought it would be.” During the day, that is. During the night it was another matter. “Do
they
know?” I tilted my head in the direction of the Bonapartes—Joseph and his wife Julie, Lucien (back from Corsica), Pauline and Victor Leclerc (recently arrived from Milan). All of them were curiously sullen in the midst of so much festivity.

“Certainly not. That hot-headed Lucien would leak it to the
Moniteur
in a minute, along with accusations that it is the fault of the Directors—my fault, to be specific. Did you know that he’s been made Secretary of the Five Hundred?”

“But he was only elected a deputy three months ago.”

“He’s become quite popular on the strength of his rather vocal opposition to the Directors—on the strength of his opposition to
me
, I should say. And as for that smiling jackal of a man, that mild-mannered—” He raised one bushy eyebrow. “I wouldn’t walk a dark alley with Joseph Bonaparte, let’s put it that way.”

“But why do they all look so glum?”

Barras snorted. “They don’t like their seats, they should be up on the stage, the posters should have their faces on them, there should be more posters, the posters aren’t big enough.” He threw up his hands. “In short, it’s not enough. It’s never enough for a Bonaparte, apparently. Your husband excepted, of course.”

“Of course,” I echoed—not paying attention, I confess. An attractive
young woman had stooped to exchange a word with Joseph. There was something familiar about her.

“Ready, Director Barras?” It was Director Neufchâteau, the newest member of the council of five Directors, and as Minister of the Interior the mastermind behind the exhibition. I wanted an opportunity to thank him personally for responding to my request that funding to the Vosges municipalities be increased. As well, I had a number of other requests to make. But most important, Bonaparte was going to be in need of allies—especially now.

I gave Director Neufchâteau my hand. “A brilliant display, Director, quite inspiring. I congratulate you.” The woman talking to Joseph stood, turned—Lisette! She headed toward a door, the gems in her headdress glittering in the torchlight. Fouché had warned me she’d been consorting with the Bonapartes. Why had she been talking with Joseph? I wondered with apprehension, recalling her words:
You will be sorry!

The military band began to warm up. I felt a stir in the crowd, craning heads. “Ah, there she is,” Barras said, speaking in the Provençal dialect, “our lovely Amazon.” I looked toward the entry. It was Thérèse, in shimmering silver and mauve, towering above the crowd. She was followed at a distance by her footman and nanny, carrying Thermidor in petticoats. Thérèse caught my eye, made a look of surprise, waved wildly.

Director Neufchâteau put his gloved hand on Barras’s shoulder. “We’re being summoned, Director,” he said. The two men headed toward the stage.

“I didn’t even know you were back,” Thérèse exclaimed, folding me in her arms.

I took her hand, feeling suddenly, unaccountably, choked up. It was so good to see her.

Thérèse held me at arm’s length. “And how
are
you?”

“I’m going to be all right.” I think. “I’m walking, that’s the important thing.”

“And what do you make of all this?” Thérèse asked before I could tell her about Lisette. “Everyone’s gone crazy over your husband. Maybe it’s true, what he says—maybe you
are
his Lady of Luck.”

I turned away. It was impossible to lie to Thérèse. Fortunately, the
nanny appeared with Thermidor, her thumb in her mouth, her big eyes transfixed. “This little one is sleepy,” Thérèse said.

“I’m not little,” Thermidor said, taking her thumb out of her mouth. “I’m—”

“Three! I know.” I took her in my arms. “My, you
are
a big girl now.” She smelled of soap. I pressed her silken cheek to mine.

“You will make a wonderful grandmother,” Thérèse said.

She hadn’t said,
a wonderful mother.

September 19.

A sleepless night. One year ago Lazare died, yet even still he is often in my thoughts. I am no Lady of Luck. Every man I have ever loved has fallen. I am ill at the thought that harm might come to Bonaparte and to Eugène. I have mourned too many loved ones. I plead with my guardian angels: fly, fly! Go to them. Keep them from harm.

September 21.

Ah, my dear Glories…

“Darling, we’re so
relieved
to see you. What have you done with your hair?”

“I love that gown. Turn, turn, let me see.”

“Oh,
that’s
different, I like the way the sash comes up over the shoulders.”

“
All of Paris has been singing your husband’s praise.”

“The French Caesar, my cook calls him.”

“Everyone.”

“Hail, Caesar!” Fortunée Hamelin was wearing a blue wig. She’d dyed one of Thérèse’s blonde ones. “My, but this champagne is excellent,” she said, shrugging her shoulders to lower her bodice. “Better get your girl to bring up a few more bottles,
Josephine.
There, you see? I remembered.”

“Is it true? Citoyenne Marmont told me that you’re going to Egypt with her, that the General is sending
La Pomone
back from Malta just to fetch you.”

“That’s so romantic. I’d love to have a ship sent for me.”

“But are you well enough to travel, darling? I noticed you walking with a bit of a limp.”

“We read
all
about your treatment in that medical journal—how ghastly.”

“It’s a wonder you survived the cure.”

“All those enemas—mon Dieu.” The bright silk flowers piled high onto the crown of Madame de Crény’s ruffled bonnet made her seem even shorter than she was.

“That’s one thing I simply can’t abide.”

“Enemas? Some women actually like them.” Minerva giggled.